There is a small me
Twisting and turning in
My inside.
She is tugging and banging
On my ribcage,
Voicelessly demanding her release.
She realises she cannot be heard
And goes and lies down
On the red mat of my heart.
She twitches and turns
And grasps on the mat,
Pulling up little mountains
That are never high enough.
There is a small me
Twisting and turning
In my inside.
She will die.
She will die and she will rot
And fill me up with putrid stench
Unless and until
Small me flees and
bursts out of my ribcage.
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